


six points of contact

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:46:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>touch can be a terribly powerful sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	six points of contact

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful Kat (http://sir-not-appearing-in-this-blog.tumblr.com/)

There are five proven human senses, and Sherlock's always had a favourite.

Touch: Sherlock has always found this sense to be the most powerful, the most informative. With taste, scent, and hearing, one might not place the exact, accurate aroma; taste; sound. And eyes... eyes were too easily deceived, too easily mislead by confusing outer stimuli; too easily blinded by bright lights, flash bulbs; tricked by slight-of-hand.

But touch... touch was accurate to the point of pain. Heightened in heat, deadened in chill, and ever, ever lingering. He uses the sense of touch to taste the world with fingertips: derive the plasticity of skin, the stiffness of a corpse, and the warmth of faded breath on the lips of a cadaver.

He can count on his hands the numbers of times he has used the power of touch outside of a case, in a matter of what he deems important. Often they include others, but, in most instances, they include only one person, one Doctor John Watson, and they're each an instance in which he invests the utmost interest in ingraining into the hard-drive of his brain.

Sherlock calls them the six points of contact, and they go something like this:

1\. _Fingertips_

 __It starts with tea; with a steaming mug of tea, set on the counter, and waiting. And it ends with John's fingers on his, just a brush around the curve of crockery, and the gaps between digits. It's all thanks to the fact that Sherlock is much too lazy to get the tea himself, and that John is a man of unending, kind patience.

"John."

Silence.

" _John_."

"What, Sherlock?"

"Favour."

A sigh, and John's padding down the stairs, laptop cradled in the crook of his arm. "Better be important; I'm not your manservant, meant to come running, you know." He stops; stands over the detective perched on the couch. "I have my own life. What do you want?"

"Tea."

John stares; a muscle jumps in his jaw. " _Tea_? You called me downstairs for _tea_?" He sighs; rubs a hand over his face, carefully balancing the laptop on one arm. "I am _not_ going to make you tea _just_ because you're a lazy git!"

Sherlock shakes his head, and points lazily towards the kitchen. "Already made some. There's a cup for you, as well. I left them in the kitchen, however, and, quite honestly, I cannot be arsed to move." He smirks slightly at John's taken-aback expression, then looks victorious when the doctor goes to the kitchen and retrieves the mugs. He brings them back, hands one to Sherlock as the detective sits up, and their hands brush. Just a second; just a flash of contact: Sherlock's knuckles bumping clumsily against John's fingernails, then he has a handful of mug, and John's already heading back upstairs.

It's not a lot, but it's a touch, and Sherlock categorizes it; tucks the event away in his database for future perusal, and returns to his thought process on the eradication of certain types of mold on poorly-preserved body parts.

2\. _Arms_

Arms are fickle things; all encomapassing and awkward angles, and his are so very, very long. Sherlock uses them to reach high over his flatmate's head; to hide things away in tall places, and reach for the stars at gunpoint.

Recently, he uses them to save John Watson's life; to catch and cradle and hold the army-doctor when he's stuck with a rusty butcher's knife, and dropped to the pavement; soaked through with raindrops.

"John, John." Sherlock's poking and prodding, and propping the smaller man up against his chest, leaning him against his knees and brushing his hands over the wound.

"I'm fine," John mutters; wheezes and struggles to get away, but Sherlock's having none of that, and grips him more tightly.

"Shut up, John, you most certainly are not 'fine'." The weight of the army-doctor is alive and comforting, and Sherlock gives John's good arm a squeeze, pulling off his scarf to press it tight against the point of bloodshed, high on John's chest. "And I apologize for this."

John rolls his eyes, but the smile tugging at the edges of his lips softens the gesture. "It's not the first time, Sherlock, and I'm sure it won't be the last."

Sherlock's not entirely certain that this excuses anything in the least, but John's still alive, John's still smiling that smile of his, and he's still here. He even lets Sherlock pull him to his feet, and doesn't chafe at the arm Sherlock keeps tight around his waist on the long walk back to Baker Street.

3\. _Hands_

 __John's hands are gentle hands; steady hands; doctor's hands. John's hands are small and compact, just as he is, a metaphor for the man that is John Watson. They can hold a gun, pull a trigger, and steal away a life. They can balance a scalpel, stitch up a wound, and save lives. They tap oh so slowly at the keyboard of his laptop, stir two sugars into black coffee, and pluck an errant hair from the sleeve of his jumper.

They're wonderful hands, marvelous hands, and Sherlock finds their touch more than adequate on his skin. Quite nice, actually, he'll admit. But only to himself, no one else, and certainly not to John.

When he's blown up yet another experiment, the fourth that week, as his irate flatmate reminds him in not-so-gentle tones, he finds himself showered with glass and beaker fragments. Sharp, small debris that slice up his arms and hands and fingers, and leave a distressingly long slash across one side of his neck.

"Idiot," John grumbles, his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and pushing him down to the couch, forcing his legs to bend and him to sit. "Can't you be more careful?" John turns away; retrieves a med kit, and sets about pulling out supplies. He sets them in Sherlock's lap; makes him hold various objects as he uncaps a bottle of antiseptic spray. "Or, better yet, can't you be a _normal_ flatmate, and _not_ blow things up in our living room?"

"It was an _experiment_ , John," Sherlock huffs, pulling faces and wincing under the sting of the spray. "A very important one, by the way, that I doubt I'll succeed in duplicating." He sulks, pushes his face into a pout, and grumbles in his throat. John ignores it all and rolls his eyes, rubbing a freezing agent over the cut.

"Of _course_ it was an experiment, and of _course_ that excuses you from almost blowing us up entirely." His voice is rough, his face tense with irritation, but his hands are painfully gentle, fingers pressing over the wound like butterfly kisses. Even as he leans forward, gripping Sherlock's knee with one hand and carefully stitching the wound with the other, he's entirely careful, every stitch precise and executed with minimal tugging and pulling; minimal discomfort.

Sherlock relaxes; focuses on the hand on his knee, the brush of John's fingers against his neck, and the smooth shift and tug of stitching thread as it weaves through his skin. He smiles very slightly; lets out a sigh that brushes a small smile in reply along John's lips.

"There. Done." John's hands disappear, and Sherlock's eyes snap open, watching the doctor repacking his supplies; moving to the kitchen to wash his hands. Sherlock bounces up; stalks to the mirror over the mantle and studies John's handiwork. Small, neat stitches in thick, wiry black thread, holding the wound snug-shut. Sherlock smiles; brushes fingertips over the stitching, and nods.

"Very good, John."

"Thanks." John replies sarcastically, and sets about tidying up the glass mess littered across the table and rug. Sherlock smiles and sits and doesn't help, because he knows John expects him not to.

4\. _Feet_

Sherlock has always been the tallest; taller than his older brother, eventually taller than his mother. Perhaps eventually taller than his father, if not for the man's untimely heart attack when Sherlock was barely seven years old. Taller than most of the New Scotland Yard police force as well, and certainly taller then his flatmate, one John Watson of exactly five feet and six point five inches.

Sometimes, his height is rather useful. Allows him the leverage to gain the upper hand in a fight; gives him reach to things high above the head of those shorter than he; makes for interesting hiding spots for John's gun when he's irritated with the smaller man.

But, as with all things, there are certainly disadvantages. Being absolute shit at hide-and-go-seek because you're too tall to fit under the kitchen sink is one of these, but certainly not the most recent or the worst. No, recently, it's the dismissive looks aimed towards his flatmate once cornered quarry has first sized up Sherlock's impressive six feet on the dot, and then compared his height to that of John, leaving his fire-cracker partner-in-crime (for lack of better terms) looking rather diminished in their inaccurate eyes.

Thankfully, John's skill as a marksman is naturally efficient in silencing such doubts, but it still irks Sherlock; burrows under his skin and chafes like an unfortunate rash.

Another disadvantage can be easily marked in the annoyance of too-low doorways in shanty-towns, and the resulting bumps and bruises such incidents leave on his forehead. However, these events more often than not lead to more contact with John's hands, and soothing ice packs, and he finds he doesn't entirely mind so much.

But there are other things that he finds makes his height quite enjoyable, to be honest. Such as, when sitting, his shoulders are at just the right height for John to rest his head, if he were so inclined, without worrying about a crick in the neck. After many hours of thought on measurements and angles, Sherlock has also determined that, when standing quite close, he's at the perfect height to press his lips to John's forehead. That is, if they did such things. He doesn't think he'd quite mind, actually, if they did, but that's neither here nor there and they don't, so there's really no use in pondering unlikely things.

However (and this is his favourite height advantage of all), if he lies out flat on the couch, his feet reach all the way to the other end, toes brushing the far arm rest. And if John sometimes feels inclined to sit at the other end, and occasionally allows Sherlock to rest his feet in his lap (and, once, his head, because he was dreadfully tired and weak with concussion), well, that's quite nice, too. Actually, it's rather wonderful, especially when John rests one of those firm, doctor's hands on his ankle, and grips lightly as he watches crap telly.  

Sherlock likes that; likes to watch John watch the telly; look at him, with John's chin resting on one hand, the other curled around Sherlock's ankle with the television LCD casting green, blue, yellow glares over John's relaxed face.

He likes that very much indeed, to be entirely honest, and takes advantage of such situations whenever they arise. So much, in fact, that John stops pulling faces whenever Sherlock's feet land in his lap. Used to it, he simply lays those gentle finges along his flatmate's instep, and they go on with their quiet evenings and adrenaline lives, and it's all very marvelous, in Sherlock's opinion.

5\. _Skin_

The skin is the body's largest organ; it spans bones, tendons, and organs. Keeps hearts in chests and off sleeves; traps lungs, kidneys, and life inside cavities; locked behind rib cages and delicate bone structures. It's covered in receptors, countless and countless receptors and pores and hair follicles, and, without skin, the sense of touch would be null and void.

Sherlock's quite interested in skin. Not all skin, not really even his own skin. No, it's John's skin, because John has such baffling skin, such wonderfully mysterious skin, and Sherlock's quite obsessed with it. Not in an unhealthy way, no, not to him, at least, but perhaps to others. Perhaps to John, but that's fine and dandy, because John doesn't know, and certainly can't be allowed to know.

John's skin is soft, which Sherlock finds outrageously misleading, seeing as John is such a roughened man; the battle-weary soldier, always meeting a fight with chin tilted high, narrowed eyes sharp and hard and wary. If anything, he would expect the ex-solider to have rough skin. Skin toughened with calluses; gritty with sand-burn, powder-burn, gun-fire. The scar over his shoulder is soft as well, which confuses the detective. Surely such violence must burn; must writhe and throw off heat, and cast dark shadows over John's collar bones; the curve of his arm. But no. No, the scar tissue is raised and bumpy, yes, yet smooth in its way. When he drifts his fingers over each curve of the wound; traces fingernails slowly along each corner of the starburst shape, he feels nothing but John; nothing but soft, soft skin, body heat and _John_.

And, when John's pressed against him, and it's skin to skin, he finds himself rather lost and drifting, and that is perfectly okay. He's always hated losing himself for any reason, but when it's John, losing himself in John, he knows he's safe, and it's not as frightfully alarming as one might think it to be.

Feeling John's heartbeat against his chest, mingling with the pulse of his own is one of Sherlock's favourite things, and he takes full advantage of the moment to brush his hands over John's shoulders; over his chest and stomach, brushing fingers through cropped hair, over toned arms.

Sherlock's skin is pale; pale and scored with light scars, so light that they seem a trick of the sun, a figment of imagination. John's skin is tanned and bronze, and every mark stands out in sharp, stark relief, a map of fights, scuffles, and clumsy footsteps in the dark on cold nights.

6\. _Lips_

Sherlock's lips are a constant conversation point. He's had them stared at; had them complimented, and had them featuring in many a pick-up line while working undercover at bars and dance clubs. He often finds himself leaning over the sink, staring into the mirror and tracing a fingertip over the full curve; the pouty bow of his mouth, and very faintly wishing the finger belonged to John Watson, and not his, tracing in idle curiosity.

Their first kiss isn't planned; it's not even hinted at, or forced, or talked about. It ends up being one of those things that kind of happens; kind of falls out of the sky and fits, and ends up just working. It doesn't happen on the couch, or in one of their beds, or even in the middle of a crime scene. It doesn't take place in the back of a cab, in the rain, or under a brilliant display of pale London sunlight.

It's awkward and a shock; neither expects it, neither intends it, and neither really seems to mind.

The first time they kiss, it happens in the kitchen, over a mug of tea and a half-eaten piece of toast. There's even a spot of jam at the corner of John's mouth, complete with bread crumbs and all.

"Sherlock," John leans on the edge of the kitchen table; cradles a slice of toast in one hand, and uses the other to grip the edge of the table. "What did I say about using my laptop?"

"Mmm?" Sherlock's only reply is a baritone hum, and he taps away at the laptop, fingers flying, barely tilting his head. "Something about asking first?" His reply is met with a heavy sigh and John's free hand stealing over his, making not-so-subtle grabs for the portable PC.

"No, Sherlock, it was not at all, you're not to use my laptop. You've got your own, and this one is mine, so hands _off_." Now John's tugging at the laptop, and Sherlock's frowning, and he turns his head to tell John just _one minute_ , because he's not done, and this is _important_ , and John's tilting his head to nag him again, and just like that, it happens. There's the awkward press of lips and teeth against teeth, and they're staring at one another, quite shocked. They both freeze, mouths pressed together. It's nothing romantic, it's a complete accident, and neither of them really knows what to make of it.

It's John who leans away first, leaving Sherlock sinking into a bit of a pout, because he thought it was really quite nice, even if they were just mashing faces and not really moving their lips at all, which he's pretty certain is the right way of it.

"I, uh."

It's one of the shortest sentences Sherlock's ever heard John utter in his life, ever heard _anyone_ utter, and he tilts his head in silence, not quite sure he understands the meaning in the two short syllables. He's staring and John's going quite red in the face, and isn't _that_ an interesting phenomenon.

"Sorry, Sherlock," John finally spits out, leaning away and ruffling his hair, his face turning a shade darker as he aims his gaze at the table/floor/wall/ceiling/anywhere but at Sherlock. John tries for a laugh; it comes out weak and strained, much like the tea in his hand. He clears his throat, seems set on trying again, and Sherlock shakes his head; sighs.

"Sometimes you are unfailingly thick, John." He wraps a hand around John's neck, ruffles his fingers through the short hair at the nape, and pulls his flatmate closer. Their eyes meet, noses brushing, and its like a thousand jolts racing along his spine; a million fireflies blinking in the dark; several billion stars supernova-ing all at once inside his skull, before Sherlock presses their foreheads together, then their mouths, and everything falls silent in his head. Everything shorts out and shuts down, and it's just John's lips against his, moving with his; John's tongue tracing his lips, much as he'd wished for, only it's not his fingers, it's much better, a bit wet and hot, hot, _hot_.

When they break apart, there's silence and that spot of jam at the edge of John's mouth; if Sherlock licks his lips, he can taste it too, but he'd much rather lick _John's_ lips. And so he does, and he tastes strawberry and toast and John, and the last tastes much better than the first two, so it's back into kissing they go.

John's hands play over his shoulders; tug through his hair and brush over the sharp lines of cheekbones under his skin, and Sherlock finds he quite enjoys this, all of it. He never thought he would, never liking to be touched before, but this is gentle and warm and it's John.

John's making noises, which is the best part. He's almost purring, a low rumble in his chest as his teeth nick the curve of Sherlock's bottom lip, his tongue once more making itself known in a slow, lingering sweep across the crease of the detective's mouth.

Eventually, however, Sherlock finds his brain fizzing, his lungs groaning for air, and they separate, gasping. John's hands are on his shoulders, Sherlock's fingers curved around the doctor's waist, nails digging into wool and jumper, sunk into warmth and body heat.

John looks flustered; red-faced and mildly embarrassed to be snogging his male flatmate in the mid-morning sunlight. He clears his throat, rubs Sherlock's collar bones lightly through his cotton pj shirt, and tries for a smile. When it fits, there's laughter and awkward touching; bumping lips and clicking teeth, and it's really quite messy, almost disgustingly so, but it's right and it works, and Sherlock finds himself humming while John's tongue explores his mouth.

They end up on the couch, tangling and smiling, still laughing with arms around one another. Sherlock fits his face in the curve of John's neck and mumbles something about 'six points of contact', leaving John to work out what he said; fit the pieces together, while he just smiles and waits and twines himself around John Watson.

There are five proven human senses, and Sherlock's always had a favourite.


End file.
